Check My Vital Signs
by Chuck's Prophet
Summary: "Brian didn't have to be a match to know that Michael was one loose firecracker." Brian Kinney was out before it was cool. Some kids aren't as fortunate... without a little push. Brian Michael. No slash. Lovey dovey warm and fluffy friendship. Rated M for coarse language and some suggestive adult themes.


Check My Vital Signs

* * *

_**A/N**: My first contribution to the QAF fandom. I absolutely loved the chemistry between these two. I was always curious how the whole Brian and Mikey-forever thing came together. I realize this could be completely off, hence why it's labeled as a work of _fiction_._

_But hey, a girl can dream._

* * *

Jockstraps, locker rooms, neoprene fabric—these were a few of Brian Kinney's favorite things.

Well, as long as he wasn't the one in them for recreational purposes.

Brian wasn't the biggest fucking superstar on campus, but he was the biggest "fuck you" a kid like Michael Novotny could ever ask for.  
Brian didn't have to be a match to know that Michael was one loose firecracker. He may have pushed the envelope sometimes with his backhand remarks, but Michael was the kid who always managed to get the extra cookie. And who could blame him? The little dude was practically a walking encyclopedia of useless facts—not to mention incredibly gorgeous for a wisecracking freshman.

But it was always his unadulterated magnitude that drew Brian in like a grasshopper to a Venus flytrap; however, he wasn't the wiser.  
"Hey, watch where you're going, dickhead."  
Exclusive was a strong word. He'd only seen Michael around the mental ward a couple of times, save for Oscar-worthy Economics. (Numbers and graphs weren't in Brian's vocabulary unless they were contributing to the Kinney fund that was his bank account. Maybe if Brad Pitt revived his acting career in Sunnyside Pittsburgh, the Law of Attraction would have outweighed the Law of Demand and the economy wouldn't be so screwed to hell.) However, unlike his loud personality, little Mikey's luck wasn't burning so hot in class. After begrudgingly passing out papers, he happened to feast his eyes on the grade highlighted over Italian Stallion's chicken scratch: Cs, Ds, even an F.

The semester was a week from ending. If his parents were anything like Brian's, the kid was staring down the barrel of death row.  
Brian threw up an invisible white flag. "Not gonna deny that fact."  
"What's wrong with you?"  
Brian laughed to deride the trivial accusation. Fortunately the hallway was cleared so he could have his way with him (even though he would have it either way). "I could say the same for you, Martha Stewart. You have the look down, but do the carpets match the drapes?"  
"Are you tripping on acid?" the smaller boy tested, rhetorical in theory but his hazel eyes were accusing, demanding an answer.  
So he gave him one: "No, but I might've been dropped on my head. I blame my mom but I think the evil storks are at fault."  
"I don't need to explain myself to you," Michael laughed, premature bangs sweeping his creased forehead. "Like you're any better."

"You're right," he conceded, smiling vindictively. "I'm an out fag."

That's undoubtedly how Brian ended up in a storage closet just short of fifth period Child Development (which was, by all means, okay with him. If there was anything worse than crunching numbers and supply curves, it was heteronormal procreation). Mikey nailed the Theatre or Band type with his picturesque Peter Pan look. Then again, with the gymnasium next door and Coach "Mad Dog" Adams barking something that sounded a lot like _Novotny!, _ he could've easily been mistaken.

The latter boy stood in front of him now, facing Brian and behind him what he presumed were oodles of hazardous chemicals. He had his dominant hand white-knuckled around the loose knob, the other bracing the door cautiously, like he was keeping the Lion from Narnia from entering their inside world. Eyes still trained on Brian, he made the following declaration:

"I'm not gay."

That earned a laugh from the boy pinned against the shelves. "And Mercury's just a performer."

"Freddie Mercury's not gay."

"I never said he was." Michael blew an exasperated sigh through his nose. He wore the poop-face of a five-year-old in extended timeout. "If you keep grinding your teeth your face will stick like that."

"I said I'm not queer."

"I heard you."

"Then get off my back."

"Says the guy keeping me incarcerated in a supply closet," Brian justified, scoffing. They both sat (or _stood_, no thanks to him) in the confined area for a good few minutes until the pendulum swung in his favor again. "Look, if you're not gay, you're not gay." He took a few baby steps forward until he was under his nose, practically inhaling in his scent. Michael avoided eye contact, instead schooling his attention on a dual-use Borax container to his immediate left. "It'll be my mistake," he whispered, given their new proximity, as an afterthought.

And then, between their mingling breaths and smells, Michael was kissing him. Initially, the action was hard and aggressive, nearly knocking the taller boy off his feet, but sooner bled into something more practiced and natural. Brian could almost feel the other boy's impulses decimating his rationality and as much as he wanted to revel in the big _I told you so_, he pulled back, for fear he'd be leading him on.

Twenty-some odd years down the road, he'd thank him.

"I told you I'm not queer," he said with the straightest (Brian had to physically cringe at the word) face he could muster.

Brian thumped absently at his lower lip, slightly red. "I believed you the first time."

Jockstraps, locker rooms, neoprene fabric—these would still continue to be a few of Brian Kinney's favorite things in the distant future. But Michael, Charles, and Novotny would indisputably serve as his top three for a long time coming.

**-END-**


End file.
